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Authors: Minnie Simpson
The Captain's Daughter
T
he
Captain’s
Daughter
by
Minnie Simpson
ERAMONT
publishers
This novel is a work
of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the
author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this
publication can be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author
or the author’s representatives.
Copyright ©
2015 Eric Aitken
Eramont,
publishers
Contact:
[email protected]
eramont.com
DLA
Dedication
The Captain’s
Daughter
~~~~~
The author dedicates
this story
with love
to
Louise
Who was truly
the inspiration
for this novel
And who is Louise?
She knows who she is
and that is all that
matters.
Back
in 1793, quite a few words and expressions were different from what we use now.
Therefore some of the language has been changed to make it easier on the ears
of modern readers.
There
are readers who may complain that they cannot find the village of
Stokely-on-Arne, or the River Arne, on their maps. They just don't have the
right maps.
Chapter 1
The captain wept
. Wrinkled
eyes moistened. A lock of grey hair was pushed back and a single tear, just one
tear, ran down a weather-beaten, salt stained cheek that had seen nary a tear
in a long, long time.
On a worn and
scratched desk in the captain’s cabin sat an opened strong box with the ship’s
log lying closed atop a pouch with a name scratched on it and the other
contents of the box. On the desk lay a partially written letter. It consisted
of just a few lines.
As the ship
lurched and swayed, the storm grew worse apace. The letter was illuminated by
one oil lamp, which was affixed to the desk so it would not fall, and shatter,
and let its fiery contents escape. A second oil lamp hung from the low slung
roof of the cabin and violently swayed, flung back and forth by the tempestuous
seas, firing long slender shadows, like spears hurled by unseen hands.
Suddenly, once
and then a second time, the sway of the ship stalled violently as if a giant
hand slammed against the starboard side of the hull.
The captain
raised a weary head, placed the letter atop the log, and holding the desk for
balance, rose and staggered the two or three steps to the cabin door. The
strong box sat unlocked and open.
When the handle
of the cabin door was turned, the storm tried to push its way inside, and it
tried to prevent the closing of the door as the captain pulled it shut with
great effort and then climbed the three steps to the deck, clutching both
rails. But the fierce gale was crouching in wait.
As the captain
stepped onto the deck it attacked, driving its victim to the rail of the ship,
and looking down into the dark, stormy sea. The captain turned holding the rail
in a death grip and looked at the aft deck above the captain’s cabin.
There would have
been a full moon tonight but for the storm clouds that left the sky heavy and
overcast during the afternoon and the dark night. The gale pulled and yanked at
the rigging trying to pull it loose. Every mast and timber in the ship creaked
and groaned as the ship fought its adversary to stay alive.
The captain
strained to see the aft deck. Very dimly old Sam was barely visible at the
wheel. Earlier as the storm approached and promised to be a “big ‘un”, Sam had
sent the young quartermaster below and taken the wheel himself. The first mate,
head hung, had left the deck and gone below. No navigation would be needed this
night.
Tonight was
about survival, and Sam knew how to survive. The ship must face into the waves
or it will be swamped and die a watery death. But the waves could not make up
their mind amongst themselves which way they wanted to go. The waves fought one
another, but they all fought the old ship. Sam stood feet wide apart, body
lashed to the wheel, an old warrior fighting a last great battle.
If he did not
succeed, if they did not survive, the ship would be lost, the cargo would be
lost, all aboard would breathe their last in a cold watery grave. And there would
be another victim who was not on the ship.
Amy tapped her
foot on the stone pathway next to the bed of marigolds. Old Hubert was being
irritating. He sat kneeling on the earth at the edge of the flowerbed and
pulled a weed.
“It isn’t
dangerous,” she insisted. “I’ll be careful. I know what I’m doing.”
After a moment
drawn out much longer than a moment should be, old Hubert took a deep wheezy
breathe, stretched over and pulled another small intruder from the midst of the
bed. Then without looking up said: “Now Miss, your father wouldn’t approve.
After Turpin threw him, ‘e said I mayn’t let any of you ride ‘im. That horse is
a devil and ‘e must not be ridden. ‘Kill someone ‘e will,’ your father said.”
“Daddy was just
annoyed because he was thrown. Turpin didn’t do it with ill will. He’s
just...just...”
“A devil. That
one be a devil,” broke in old Hubert, eyeing a third very tiny weed which stood
frailly amidst a circle of marigolds, which stared at the weed like a circle of
angry aunts and old maids.
“No! He’s young
and full of energy. I want to ride him,” she demanded standing as rigidly
upright as possible with her right hand on her hip. She, the daughter of Sir
Anthony Sibbridge, and he the recalcitrant and stubborn gardener. No, wait. He
wasn’t the gardener. Young Kenneth was the gardener. He was the stablehand. No,
Daniel was the stablehand. She wasn’t sure how she would describe Hubert. He
was old and feeble and had been there forever. Yes, she knew what he was. He
was annoying and pigheaded.
The moment the
thought went through her mind she felt guilty and not a little ashamed. She
liked old Hubert. Everyone liked old Hubert. But right now he wouldn’t saddle
up Turpin so she could ride him, strictly against our father’s wishes—no, her
father’s orders. She didn’t like that. But she knew she could get old Hubert to
come around. All it needed was a little more wheedling.
“I’ll be in
trouble with your father should ‘e find out.” Old Hubert sadly shook his head
as she mounted young Turpin.
Turpin was sleek
and black and had a look in his eye, even as he stood still and well-mannered
for the moment.
“Daddy won’t
find out,” she reassured the old man who was still shaking his head from side
to side. “He isn’t as concerned about things as he was.” They both knew what
she meant.
Hubert slapped
Turpin on the rump. It was really more of a pat, but Turpin took it as a call
to action and took off like a shot from a cannon. He did not, however, head for
the meadow as any more sane horse would, but instead headed in the wrong
direction straight into the garden. He galloped, careened is really more like
it, down the garden path, shot past the sundial and the little pond, and headed
down the long drive.
Emmaline, Amy’s
twelve-year-old sister was at the sundial experimenting with a caterpillar.
Emmaline, or Emma as everyone called her, looked up from her scientific
endeavors as a black blur shot past her, and watched as her sister, a white
blur clinging to the reins, flew down the wide drive and disappeared amidst the
trees. Then Emma nonchalantly resumed her analysis of the caterpillar.
“Emma!” The
woman with the voice as hard as steel was looking for her. “Emma!”
Emma tried to
blend into the sundial as if she was a statue sculptured next to it. She stood
hunched over the sundial motionless.
“Emma... Oh
there you are. I just do not know what to do with you my child. You know that
you have not finished your lessons.”
“You know you
have-not-finished-your-lessons,” Emma mocked under her breath with as squeaky a
voice as she could muster in a loud whisper.
Mrs. Parkhurst,
Mrs. Charlotte Parkhurst, her tutor marched up to her.
Emma turned,
feigning surprise. “Oh, Mrs Parkhurst, I didn’t see you. I was just about to
come back in to finish my lessons. There are so many of them and I felt like I
was going to faint and I just had to get some fresh air.”
“Hrrumpt,” said
Mrs. Parkhurst as she took a firm hold of Emma’s arm.
Emma tried to
squirm free to no avail, as her tall, manly tutor marched her up and into
Broomlee Park Manor her family’s imposing home.
Inside the
house, she firmly marched Emma past her mother, who for some reason was in the
front hall fussing over Mathilde, Emma’s seventeen-year-old sister, Mattie. Or
more accurately she was fussing over Mattie’s dress which she was to wear to
the ball that evening at Brewminster Hall, which was just north of town.
Meanwhile, Amy
was still clinging desperately to Turpin’s shiny black mane as he had decided
to run several circles as if he were in the ring of a circus. Obviously tiring
of that bit of fun, he straightened out and again headed directly down the
drive towards the road.
Oh, please,
please
, Amy pleaded to herself,
don’t let him turn right at the Stockley
road again. I’m still not over the last time. It was so embarrassing
.”
Turpin evidently
didn’t hear her because the horse was evil enough to have done just that again
if he knew how she felt. He had obviously enjoyed standing in the middle of the
village square snorting and shaking his head while the people of the town gathered
around to help Amy up, physically more or less fine, although her dignity was
severely injured.
She was thankful
when he circled to the left and away from town, as she still clung to his mane.
Her relief was only brief before she began to wonder what he had up his sleeve,
or would have had up his sleeve if horses had sleeves.
Amy you’re a
silly goose for worrying like that. The only place down the road is Hillfield
House and nobody is living there at the moment except the servants. Turpin will
soon run out of energy and graze in the meadow and then I can lead him home
before Daddy finds out we’re gone
.
In actuality,
she had never successfully led Turpin anywhere, but Amy was a very optimistic
young woman.
Her musings were
interrupted when Turpin made a sudden turn to the right and seemed about to
commit suicide by crashing into the trees at the side of the road.
“Turpin, what
are you doing,” she squeaked and then realized that he was heading down the old
path to the river, which was overgrown since no one used it any more.
Turpin was
approaching the River Arne at a furious pace. Amy braced herself ready for him
to plunge into the shallow waterway, splash his way across it, and ride up the
opposite bank.
This was not his
intention, however, because when he reached the edge of the river, they
abruptly came to a halt. Or more accurately, Turpin came to an abrupt halt. Amy
however did not. In a move that would have made a French acrobat proud she flew
right over Turpin’s head, which he had thoughtfully dipped down with a shake
and a snort, through the air in a very impressive ark, and right into a pool in
the middle of the river.
That was a good
thing. Not the flying through the air part, but the coming to a landing in the
pool, because the River Arne was not especially deep. In fact, most of it was
only a few inches deep, and those few inches mostly gurgled pleasantly over
rocks.
Despite all the
fun things that had happened to Amy in the last minutes—moments—she still, at
some level realized this. As she sat in the pool of water with copious amounts
of it escaping her thick red hair and draining down to thoroughly soak her
dress, because yes, Amy had gone riding in her dress, she was thankful that she
was in the middle of the River Arne out here where nobody could see her unlike
that last incident where she was right in the middle of Stockley-on-Arne on
market day.
Then she heard
the laughter. It was on the opposite bank. She strained to see through the
water that was still running down her face from her abundant locks. The blurry
figure standing just below the old ruin was dressed in rough brownish tan
clothes.
She was
indignant. How dare some swain, some farmer’s ploughboy, laugh at a lady. She
must discover whom he works for and have a firm talk with his master. Well,
maybe not, she didn’t want him to lose his livelihood, and besides she was
perfectly capable of dealing with him herself.
“Ploughboy,” she
growled, “if you were any kind of a man you would come to a lady’s aid and not
just stand there dumbly watching her drown.”
“I am so sorry,
miss,” he said, and she was sure she saw a smirk on his face, “but I did not
realize you were drowning. Let me help you.”
“No, no just
stay where you are.” He did not look sorry and she had the distinct feeling he
was making fun of her.
For the first
time she noticed he was holding an artist’s palette. An artist! That was much
worse than a ploughboy.
“Seriously,
Miss, do you need help? I tend to refrain helping ladies when they find
themselves in a humiliating situation unless they ask for help, because it
often just embarrasses them more.”
“Well, for one
thing,” Amy spoke through clenched teeth as she stood up in the pool, shedding
amazing amounts of water from her thoroughly soaked dress, “for one thing, I am
not in a humiliating situation. I am not humiliated. I’m just a little
inconvenienced. That is all.”
“And the other
thing,” he quizzed.
“Oh, the other
thing?” She shook her headed causing numerous drops of water to go flying,
reminding him of a wet dog trying to shake itself dry. “Never mind. I forget
what I was going to say.”
“Were you going
tell me you never get embarrassed?”
“Well, I don’t,”
she said firmly. “Are you a painter?”
“If you say so,
and yes I am as you can see from the easel before which I stand.”
“Have I seen
anything you painted? What is your name, anyway? Are you famous?”
“I have tried my
level best to make sure no one has ever seen anything I have painted. My name
is Ben, and I’ve also tried my best to avoid being famous.”
“Well , Mr.
Ben,” she said dripping with sarcasm, but in an condescending manner, “
my
name
is Amaryllis Sibbridge, my father is
Sir
Anthony Sibbridge,
and he is the lord of these lands upon which you are trespassing, or will be
trespassing on if you come across the river.”
She paused, waiting
for him to speak because now he knew he had offended a lady. He was obviously
severely wanting in manners because he said nothing, and just stood there
smiling with his tousled black hair wantonly framing what she had to admit to
herself was a rather handsome face.
“You must have
another name,” she said imperiously.
“I do indeed
have another name, Miss.”
“What is it?”
